JON
A knight's duty, according to the teachings of Ser Warren Cole, was to protect. Protect your Lord, protect your lands, protect the weak and the innocent. Jon had held fast to those teachings. He had trained until his muscles felt like they would tear, he had taken blows that would have knocked a smaller man unconscious, and he had spilled blood, both his own and his opponent's, in the dust of the tourney grounds. He was a knight. The sword and shield were his tools, courage and loyalty were his core.
Right now, his tools were a clumsy pair of iron shears, and his enemy was a seemingly endless pile of white linen cloth.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
The sound was the only music in the carpenter's workshop that had been commandeered as his young Lord's private space. The workshop itself was strange enough. In one corner stood a giant wooden frame that looked like a mad wine press. On the workbenches normally used for planing boards, there now sat shallow wooden trays and hundreds of little metal blocks, each with a letter on top. And everywhere, on every available surface, were piles of cloth.
And his duty? His duty, as the sworn protector of the heir to Casterly Rock, was to sit on a hard stool and cut these piles of cloth into pieces the size of his thumb.
It was tedious. It was boring. It was women's work, or perhaps the work of a servant being punished. It made him want to roll his eyes so hard he could see his own brain.
But the money the boy paid... the money was very tempting. A shining Gold Dragon slipped into his hand "for your troubles, good Jon," as if it were just a few copper pennies. It was more than he earned in a full month as a guard. So, he sat there and he cut. Besides, he couldn't exactly refuse a Lannister.
"Keep your head up high and proud, Jon."
Lord Jaime's cheerful voice broke his reverie. The boy was sitting across the room, near his own bucket of cloth scraps, grinning at him.
"I can still see your frown from here," the boy continued, his green eyes dancing with amusement. "A frown that seems to say, 'I hate this nonsense and I wish I were buried alive.'"
Jon coughed, cleared his throat, and quickly straightened his aching back. He tried to arrange his face into an expression he thought looked diligent and focused. "Oh, no-no, Lord Jaime. I love doing this. It makes me concentrate so hard all day that I think I'll be able to spot an enemy's weaknesses at a single glance!"
It was the most foolish excuse he had ever made, and he knew it.
"Good," Jaime said, his grin widening, "because we're going to be doing this for a very, very long time."
Jon's heart sank into his boots. Damn it!
"Do you not have plans in the library again, Lord Jaime?" he tried, a desperate attempt to gain a reprieve. It was late afternoon, the time when the boy would usually be closeted with Maester Creylen, or sitting alone in a corner, writing rapidly on sheets of parchment. Jon had seen the results: neat stacks of pages, filled with clear handwriting, which the boy then bound himself into thin books using a needle and thread.
Jon didn't understand his young master's strange obsession with books and ink. It wasn't natural. A boy his age should want to be outside, hunting or riding, not getting his fingers stained with ink. Once, a few weeks ago, Jaime had given him a complex set of instructions to relay to the master carpenter, something about the angle on one of the wooden trays. Jon, his mind filled with horses and swords, had of course gotten one of the details wrong.
When he returned and reported the job was done, the boy had just looked at him, sighed a long, sad sigh, and said, more to himself than to Jon, "As my guard, you should have taken notes."
Taken notes! As if Jon were a maester or a scribe! His heart rebelled at the idea. But then he thought of the warm, heavy Gold Dragon in his pouch. Yes, for another dragon, he would certainly carry notes, a quill, and even the damn inkwell if asked. The boy's money was like the tide in Lannisport, it seemed to never run out. And for that, Jon was grateful to be a part of all this madness.
His mind drifted back, away from the smell of sawdust and this tedious task. He thought of home. Clearwater. A small, wet, green village that wasn't even on most maps, where the biggest event of the year was the harvest. He was a farmer's son, destined for a life of plowing the same soil as his father and his grandfather. But his father had bigger dreams for him.
Jon could still remember the day clearly, his father, a good, quiet man with hands as calloused as stone, standing with his cap in his hands before Ser Warren Cole, his voice trembling with nervousness. House Cole was a vassal of House Crakehall, and Ser Warren was a true knight, a good, no-nonsense man who valued hard work over lineage. Whether out of pity or because he saw a spark of potential in young Jon's eyes, he had agreed.
Ser Warren had taught him everything: how to care for a horse, how to polish armor until it shone like a mirror, and most importantly, how to use a sword. He was a patient teacher and a good mentor. Under his tutelage, Jon grew from a clumsy farm boy into a capable squire, and eventually, a knight.
The day he was knighted was the proudest day of his life. But pride didn't fill a stomach. The tourneys were where the money was, but also where bones were broken and dreams were shattered. He had won a few melees, earned enough to buy a decent suit of armor and a strong warhorse. But then came the offer. A position as a household knight at Casterly Rock.
It was like a dream. To serve House Lannister, the richest and most powerful House in the Westerlands. It was the pinnacle for a lowborn knight like himself. A steady income. Honor. Glory. He could send money home regularly to his parents, ensuring they would never go hungry. He could even save, something his father had never been able to contemplate.
And now, thanks to the funny little man before him, his savings were growing faster than mushrooms after a rain. So, yes. He would cut cloth. He would take notes. He would do whatever nonsensical thing this golden heir asked of him.
"Enough theorizing, Jon, and now it's time for practice." Jaime's voice brought him back to the present. "So no, I don't have plans to go to the library now." The boy's face was focused on his work again, his shears moving with a neat speed and precision.
Jon nodded, suppressing a sigh. "What is all this for, Lord Jaime? Haven't we cut so much cloth already?" The bucket between his feet was already nearly full of small white scraps.
Jaime looked up, his green eyes looking straight into Jon's, filled with a strange, infectious enthusiasm. "Listen, here we are going to make paper," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And since you, me, or anyone here has never tried it, we have to prepare a lot of material. If we fail on the first, or second, or fifth attempt, we don't want to run out of material, do we?"
Paper. Of course. Jaime was always talking about paper. How expensive parchment was. How rare it was. How it limited the spread of knowledge. Jon didn't really understand half of what he talked about, but he understood the obsession.
"So why not just let your people do this?" Jon asked, trying one last time. "Surely you must be tired, My Lord."
Jaime laughed, a clear, genuine laugh. "Tired? I'm just moving my fingers, this isn't tiring at all! Besides, this is my idea, and if I can do it for a while, why not? This is the first experiment, so I want to experience the process myself. To understand every step. If you don't understand the process, you can never improve it." He paused, and that sly grin returned. "Though, when it comes to the pulping, I'll be leaving more of that to you."
Jaime winked, and Jon groaned internally. Pulping. That meant sweaty, back-breaking work, turning these scraps of cloth into a slurry. Of course the boy would leave that part to him.
Jon picked up another handful of cloth and began to cut, the rhythm of his shears becoming faster, driven by resignation. He was Ser Jon of Clearwater. A knight of the Westerlands. Protector of the Young Lion.
And a professional cloth-cutter. And soon, a pulp-pounder.
…
As the heavy workshop door closed behind them, the world seemed to take a breath. The sharp smell of sawdust and cloth dust was replaced by the cool, clean evening air, carrying the faint scent of salt from the sea. The sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky over the Sunset Sea with strokes of orange, pink, and purple. It was a sight that would make a singer write a song, but to Jon, it was just a marker that another strange workday was nearly over. His back ached, and his fingers were stiff from gripping the shears for hours.
"Tired?" Jaime's voice came from beside him, filled with an energy that Jon certainly didn't possess. They walked side-by-side down the path leading back to the main keep, their footsteps making a soft crunching sound on the gravel.
Jon glanced at his young lord. The boy's green eyes were bright in the twilight, and his golden hair looked like a crown of fire. "Not a bit," Jon lied smoothly. "It was just women's work."
Jaime looked at him, his eyebrows raised in a mock-shocked expression. "So you mean men shouldn't do it?"
Jon nearly stumbled over his own feet. By the Seven, this child loved to twist words. "Uh, not really, that's not what I meant, My Lord," Jon cut in quickly, feeling his cheeks heat up slightly. "What I meant was... that stage doesn't require much strength. And women's strength isn't as great as men's. That's all."
Jaime's laughter burst out, a clear, free sound that was pleasant in the quiet air. "Oh come on, I'm just teasing, Jon. I know what you meant." He patted Jon's arm in a friendly manner, a gesture that was strangely reassuring. "Are you hungry? Let's sneak into the kitchens and grab some food."
Jon's grin appeared instantly, wiping away all his fatigue. He had served Young Lord Jaime for over two years, and he had learned that the boy had two very different sides. There was Lord Jaime, the thinker who spoke of paper and printing presses with the gravity of a grand maester. And then there was Jaime, the boy, whose eyes would sparkle with mischief and who loved a simple little adventure. Jon preferred the latter.
"This idea of yours is the most interesting one yet, My Lord," Jon said, his grin matching his master's.
They didn't take the main path back to the great hall, but veered onto a smaller, servant's path, a route that led them to the back door of the kitchens. This was a conspiracy they had undertaken many times, a little ritual that had developed between them.
The kitchens of Casterly Rock were a world entirely different from the rest of the castle. It was a vast, hot cavern teeming with life. Fires roared in giant hearths large enough to roast a whole ox. Dozens of cooks and kitchen hands rushed to and fro, the sound of clanging copper pots, chopping knives on cutting boards, and shouted orders creating a symphony of organized chaos. The air was thick with a magnificent array of smells: the sharp scent of onions being sautéed, the sweet aroma of apple pies baking, the savory smell of frying chicken, and the delicious smell of fish being grilled with lemon.
As they entered, a few of the younger servants looked up, their eyes widening in surprise to see the heir of the castle and his sworn sword entering through the back door. But they quickly bowed their heads and returned to their work. They were used to this by now.
In the midst of it all, like a queen in her bustling kingdom, stood Rhae. She was the head cook, a middle-aged woman with arms made strong from kneading dough and a face that always seemed a little flushed from the heat of the fires.
"Young Lord Jaime!" she exclaimed, her warm, raspy voice cutting through the noise. "I was wondering when you'd show your handsome face again. Your stomach starting to rumble, eh?"
"Always for your cooking, Rhae," Jaime replied with a smile, easily slipping into the relaxed atmosphere. He walked over to a water barrel, took a dipper, and poured himself some warm water, drinking it in a few gulps. "Just a drink," he said to Rhae. "I won't eat much. It's almost dinner, and it would be impolite if I just sat there and stared."
"Nonsense," Rhae said with a laugh. "A growing boy needs fuel." She picked up a freshly baked pastry from the oven and handed it to Jaime. "Here, try this. Still warm."
Jaime took it, blew on it slightly, and took a bite. His eyes closed for a moment in bliss. "Seven, Rhae, this is incredible."
Jon watched the interaction with a small smile. Here, in the kitchens, among the common folk, Jaime seemed most at ease. He didn't have to be a genius or a lord. He could just be a boy who liked pastries.
"Try this grape, Young Lord, it's very sweet," Jon said.
Jaime took one, popped it in his mouth, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Yes, you're right. The farmer must have taken good care of it," his eyes sparkled. "Oh, Jon, want to hear a story?"
"Out with it," Jon said, grabbing a piece of fried chicken from a nearby tray as Rhae pretended not to see.
"Alright," Jaime said, leaning against a table in a conspiratorial manner. "I was watching Addam today in the practice yard."
Jon nodded as he chewed. Addam Marbrand. They saw him almost every day. Addam was one of the few other pages who could keep up with Young Lord Jaime in training, a friendly boy with brown hair and a too-quick smile.
"He's getting better, isn't he?" Jaime continued. "His movements are quick, and he's learning to read his opponent's moves."
"He has talent," Jon agreed. "Ser Benedict says he has a good wrist."
"He does," Jaime said, and that mischievous grin appeared on his face. "But I have a prophecy for him."
Jon raised his eyebrows, intrigued. "A prophecy?"
"I have seen his future," Jaime said with a funny, mock-seriousness. "One day, he will be a great knight. Maybe even captain of the guard. But he will be defeated, not by a sword or a spear, but by a pair of blue eyes and a sweet smile."
Jon burst out laughing. It was absolutely true. Addam, though a promising fighter, had a notorious weakness for a pretty face. He would blush and stammer whenever one of Lady Genna's handmaidens walked past. Of course, only they knew this.
"He asked me about adventure songs yesterday," Jaime continued, his eyes dancing. "About knights who rescue princesses. I told him, 'Be careful, Addam. Sometimes the princesses don't need rescuing, and they can be more dangerous than any dragon.' He didn't understand, of course. He just looked at me as if I had gone mad."
"He might not be wrong," Jon joked, and Jaime punched him playfully on the arm.
It felt good to laugh. It was a harmless joke, a sharp observation shared between two people who understood the small world of their training yard. It was a rare and precious moment of normality.
After their laughter died down, Jaime took one more pastry for the road. "Thanks for the food, Rhae. As always, you're the best."
"Anytime, Young Lord," the woman said with a warm smile.
They left the kitchen the same way they had entered, returning to the quieter, more formal corridors of the castle. A smile was still on Jon's face, and he could still taste the savory chicken on his tongue.
And there she was. Standing like a marble statue in the middle of the corridor, as if she had been waiting for them.
Cersei Lannister.
Her arms were crossed, and her fine brows were furrowed in an expression of cold disapproval. The smile on Jon's face vanished instantly. The air around them seemed to drop several degrees.
"As a Lannister," she said, her voice as sharp as winter ice, "you should pay more attention to your conduct." Her gaze was fixed on Jaime, completely ignoring Jon's existence.
Jaime didn't seem intimidated. His smile faded slightly, but the mischief in his eyes remained. He did something with his mouth, pushing out his lower lip in a childish, mock-pout. "What did I do, sister? We were just eating a warm snack."
Cersei snorted, a sound full of contempt. "You sneak out of the kitchens like a thief. If someone saw you, they would think you never get any food. You embarrass our name by consorting with the cooks."
"Rhae is the best cook in the Westerlands," Jaime retorted cheerfully. "I don't see it as an embarrassment. I see it as an act of ensuring I stay on her good side."
"You shouldn't care about a servant's 'good side'," Cersei hissed. "They are here to serve us. Not the other way around."
"Of course," Jaime said, his tone still light. "And they serve us better if they are happy. I call it maintaining the assets."
Cersei narrowed her eyes, frustrated at her inability to pierce her brother's cheerful mood. "Whatever you say, Jaime. Whatever."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned with a sharp rustle of her silk gown and walked away, her back straight and angry.
Jon let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The girl's presence was like a sudden storm cloud.
He glanced at Young Lord Jaime. The boy was watching his sister's retreating back, his smile gone, replaced by a more complex expression, a mixture of annoyance and sadness.
Then, he turned to Jon and shrugged, a small, tired smile returning to his face. "Well," he said. "Not everyone can appreciate a warm snack, I suppose."
Jon didn't know what to say, so he just nodded. As they continued their journey towards the great hall for the inevitable, silent dinner, he reflected on how different the two twins were. They looked like two sides of the same golden coin, but where one was cold, hard, and cared only for its outer shine, the other… the other had an unexpected warmth, a sense of humor, and a complexity that continued to surprise Jon.
He preferred the latter side of the coin. Very much so.
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